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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225083">but you are a nomad and i love you sideways daily</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderest/pseuds/tenderest'>tenderest</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, F/M, King Alistair (Dragon Age), Mage Surana (Dragon Age), Multi, Mute Warden (Dragon Age), Polyamorous Character, Post-Blight, Training</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:43:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,629</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225083</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderest/pseuds/tenderest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Before he leaves for Antiva the first time, Zevran decides it is time to teach her to take on Crows.<br/>“Not that I don’t trust you to take on any adversary, of course, amore,” he assures her, waving a hand in that dramatic, characteristically northeastern way of his. Sunbeams spill between the puffs of morning mist and catch around his blonde hair like a halo, all the warmth of summer still clinging to him. “You have, after all, defeated me before, and I am truly exceptional, as you well know.”</p><p>With both her hands, Surana tells him, “I could take on any Crow again even without my staff, love.”</p><p>“Oh, provocation. Perhaps you could make good on your word and show me.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Warden</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>but you are a nomad and i love you sideways daily</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"but you are my nomad and i love you sideways daily. sideways because i have to beam my love in all directions, hoping it bounces off something and eventually finds you." richard siken</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Before he leaves for Antiva the first time, Zevran decides it is time to teach her to take on Crows.</p><p>“Not that I don’t trust you to take on any adversary, of course, amore,” he assures her, waving a hand in that dramatic, characteristically northeastern way of his. Sunbeams spill between the puffs of morning mist and catch around his blonde hair like a halo, all the warmth of summer still clinging to him. “You have, after all, defeated me before, and I am truly exceptional, as you well know.”</p><p>With both her hands, Surana tells him, “I could take on any Crow again even without my staff, love.”</p><p>“Oh, provocation. Perhaps you could make good on your word and show me.”</p><p>She levels him a <em> look</em>, which he encounters with a bright smile that shows all his teeth. </p><p>The colors of Denerim’s training yard are fading, spring starting to wither in the King’s land, temperatures dropping slightly lower than they usually are. Autumn is upon them, and Zevran has a journey to make, and the Wardens call for her — with inquiries of guidance, requests of leadership, <em> questions </em> on the latest impossible happenings, and the bounty on Zevran’s head only grows bigger each day they dare stall.</p><p>An assassin had made his way inside their chamber the night before.</p><p>Earlier in the evening, as they sat in the King’s presence for dinner, Zevran had leaned closer to her ear, a whisper and a warning leaving his lips, “<em>servant boy with the face scar</em>.”</p><p>She pretended not to notice Alistair’s gaze linger on them, none the wiser to the servant boy pouring Lord Teagan wine.</p><p>Exposing the assassin in public would have antagonized the nobility and the guardsmen. It had been bad enough that the King had permitted two elves in court. Elves who brought assassins? Even the King would have a hard time trying to justify it on their favor. Alistair had enough on his plate as it was. Rebuilding Denerim after the battle, sending forth efforts to help nearby villages affected by the darkspawn attacks, persuading nobles out of their selfish whims, trying to prove himself a leader that would as loved as Anora was. The King wouldn’t’ve spared efforts into protecting them. He’s reckless on his core, with a dangerously soft heart to pair. But Surana had played amongst humans for very long and read too much, and she knew better.</p><p>Alistair couldn’t afford risking it all for the two of them so early into his reign. And he would have. She’d given him the throne, with a broken heart and a plea—</p><p><em>Take it because I will not give it to the woman whose father enslaved people under pretenses of necessities of war.</em> <em>Take it because I would burn this castle to the ground before I give it to anyone else.</em></p><p>She would make sure he stayed on it.</p><p>(“<em>Will you help me?” </em> he’d asked, looking as young as the day she’d met him in Ostagar, freshly recruited, bright-eyed, beautiful.</p><p>Her hands had raised in a patient motion, <em> “of course.”) </em></p><p>Nobility approval be damned— he is the best of them all. And he would make a better King than any of them realized.</p><p>And so Zevran had slit the assassin’s throat, and she’d incinerated the body herself in the dead of night, once they’d carried it out of the castle in the shadows of moonlight, concealed by her magic. </p><p><em> (“You understand, yes? I would not risk you,” </em> Zevran’s hands on either side of her face, holding gently, <em> “and this— it is something I must do. For myself,  for all the children the Crows ever took</em>. <em> And for us.”  </em></p><p>He’d looked gorgeous then, his eyes gleaming with burning determination, mellow brown skin bathed in the campfire light, his blonde hair carelessly falling over set eyebrows. Her fingertips had touched his cheeks, her answer a simple caress on his skin, <em> “of course</em>.”)</p><p>Zevran, for all his cheeky humor and smiles, carried a tension on his shoulders that she’d seen only once, the night before the battle, the night he thought would’ve been her last, had she not thrust upon Alistair another duty he wasn’t willing to take on.</p><p>Zevran was less inclined to leave both her and Alistair than he would truly let on, and this she knew for the mirth on his features mirrored Alistair’s so much it made her teeth ache. It was just another little thing they’d picked up from each other, she thought, from those long travels.</p><p>She is loathe to the idea of parting with either of them. But responsibility is a terribly uncomfortable weight on one’s shoulder, and the Wardens call. Once, she wouldn’t have cared for this dying Order. Not anymore.</p><p>“Shall we?” Zevran asks, a blade twirling in one hand, tantalizing. </p><p>With a long sigh, hoping it will put his mind to rest, Surana stands up from the bench she occupied, leaving her staff withdrawn at her back, in favor of unsheathing her own sword. </p><p>It is a smaller sword than most crafted. A gift from Bodahn she’d never used much but greatly appreciated nonetheless, for it had been carefully adjusted to her height and strength.</p><p>Zevran makes an interested sound in the back of his throat at her weapon choice and proceeds to make a show of twisting his daggers in his fast hands. He shifts into a stance she knows well, smirks, his voice but a drawl when he speaks.</p><p>“This brings back memories, no?”</p><p>And then he lunges forward, with all the swiftness of a Crow on his feet.</p><p>She is, as she’s always been, ready for him. </p><p>She holds a barrier and her own magic shimmers before her, fiery and sturdy.</p><p>She puts up a good fight, even if she does not often favor swords. She is good enough with them, after many nights of practice at camp. With the assistance of her own stafless combat magic and tricks she'd picked up from Alistair, they find common ground quickly into the fight. </p><p>Zevran dodges more of her spells than she anticipates, swiftly avoiding bursts of fire aimed at his breastplate. Of  course, he had trained with a reluctant Wynne in their travels. And Wynne was Lake Calenhad’s very best mage.</p><p>But Zevran’s strongest suit isn’t his strength — he is a smaller than the average elf. When she encounters a dagger attack with the blade of her sword, he doesn’t waste time struggling against her steady hold: he shifts attention to the parts of her body she leaves vulnerable.</p><p>The attack comes as a flash of movement so quick she almost misses entirely, as he glades through the training yard in her direction.</p><p>But Surana knows the movements and edges of his body, from battles they’d fought back to back, from nights laying hip to hip.</p><p>She pulls at the Fade: magic brims and envelops her just before he reappears and his dagger can meet the exposed skin underneath her arm. Her body glows, light and ethereal, and his daggers slip right through where her flesh should be, meeting nothing but air. She side steps away from him. The thin veil of magic slips away.</p><p>“Oh, playing dirty, are we?” the pull of Zevran's lips is cocky.</p><p>Then he flickers out of eyesight. An old trick of his.</p><p>Rogues are tricky, sneaky things in fights.</p><p>He strikes her back with a succession of sharp blows that send her crashing forward. It doesn’t pierce her armor, but is enough to knock the wind out of her chest and the sword out of her hand as she meets the ground face-first. </p><p>At her back, she hears the whisper of Zevran’s movement on the earth as he makes for her.</p><p>In one motion, she pulls the staff from her back, turns, swinging.</p><p>The blow lands on the side of Zevran’s face, knocking him away from her. </p><p>The back of her mouth tastes like sawdust as she scrambles to her feet. Zevran is already standing, one dagger-wielding hand touching the ground, near crouching, left feet in a charge stance.  There is a bruise on the right side of his face, reaching high on his cheekbones where his tattoo ends. It will certainly look nasty later.</p><p>Zevran’s gaze is ferocious under his thick eyebrows, his mouth distorted in something akin to a grin but not quite. It could be just as well baring teeth, like a feral being surveying its prey before it attacks. The sight makes her body shiver, as though Fade-touched.</p><p>Zevran is, undeniably, a Crow. It makes her want to drop the fight and tackle him right here, in the middle the King of Ferelden’s training yard.</p><p>But she is proud, if anything. And not fond of losing. They can take it to their chambers, later.</p><p>Zevran is the first to move again—and together they become a blur of movement and flashes of magic.</p><p>It is easier, with the magic of her staff, but Zevran is ridiculously fast. She cannot have a steady aim on his form as he moves around her, striking where he can sneak into. And though Surana has stronger magic, deadlier magic, it is magic she cannot use in the heart of the kingdom of Ferelden. Not without risking being locked up in a Circle tower again.</p><p>She grinds her teeth against the frustration.</p><p>In the midst of the fight, Zevran laughs, delighted when his daggers meet her form for the third time.</p><p>A sore loser and a little antagonized, Surana casts a hot whirlwind of fire. This, at last, catches Zevran on her inferno. She spots the first glimpses of exhaustion on his attacks then. Realizes that his stamina is running out, just as her mana is.</p><p>Surana’s magic reaches for paralysis, knowing that Zevran is far too skilled to be stopped entirely by it. </p><p>But it does slow him down.</p><p>As the spell clings to his limbs like stones, she pulls at the ground viciously, catches a boulder in the grasp of her magic, and <em> hurls </em> it forward. She doesn’t expect it to stop him either. But there’s another split-second delay on Zevran’s step as he flickers out of sight again. </p><p>The very same trick as before.</p><p>A small smirk curls at her mouth. She raises her staff up, gripping both sides with her hands, and expects the blow. Zevran’s daggers find only wood upon impact, carving into the staff. Surana attacks before he can react this time, her staff colliding with his skull, knocking his daggers away. </p><p>Zevran falls on his knees. When he starts back up, he meets only her staff trained on his face.</p><p>His smile is warm and exhausted at her feet.</p><p>”I yield, my dear Warden,” he tells her, reverently.</p><p>There is a breathless pause where they look into each other’s eyes, satisfied and spent. And Zevran still smiles, the same smile he’d worn when she had defeated him in that ambush, so long ago. But it is not the day they had met. It is better day and it is a kinder time and the curves of his mouth only display relief.</p><p>A grin breaks on her face, and she offers him a hand.</p><p>Zevran kisses it before he takes it.</p><p>And it is only when he is on his feet that she realizes they have an audience.</p><p>A group have gathered around the training yard. Ferelden soldiers, castle servants, a few nobles and, at last her eyes catch him: Alistair, smiling a radiant smile, a ridiculous smile that makes her heart quiver, blurring everything else from sight.</p><p>Surana does not appreciate being watched. Even less so by an audience certainly looking for weaknesses and places to strike. They call her a Hero, but the danger has passed, and the ears and mage robes sometimes are a bigger reminder of who she is than any deed or griffon symbol on her breastplate.</p><p>Alistair is dressed with the regal surcoat in the Kingdom’s colors and the typically Ferelden combat leathers of the King’s guard underneath, and his crown is slightly askew upon his golden hair. Dog is at his feet, watching Zevran sourly. Alistair must’ve had to hold him back from joining the fight.</p><p>“Your Grace.” Zevran says at her side, grinning still, unperturbed by the troubled eyes of their audience. One of his hands softly touch the small of her back, a gentle reassurance. </p><p>He bows. </p><p>Surana, after only a beat, follows, leaning on her staff for support.</p><p>Alistair shifts on his feet.</p><p>“Morning,” he utters, his eyes fleeting between them and the people. His people, his subjects. </p><p>Royalty falls strangely on Alistair’s shoulders. He stands in the way only a man terribly aware of his own presence does now, with deliberate motions and purposefully straight stance. And he used to slouch, a little bit, in the beginning. Even in the aftermath of Ostagar.</p><p>It does not surprise her that he doesn’t know how to act, here in a castle of his own.</p><p>They all barely had owned tents of their own in their little camp, not long ago. After the attack on camp, they didn't even have that. The three of them were used to semi-private mornings, sitting closely by the extinguishing campfire, with pots of soup, sometimes bread, for breakfast. Many mornings in which they’d woken up still dirty and reeking of yesterday’s battles, their party grown accustomed by their own smell and bad breaths. Now, Zevran and Surana have assigned, permanent chambers in his castle, and breakfasts are held in a great hall, several empty seats between the three of them.</p><p>They had practiced and fought and bled beside one another for a full year. And she had loved them and they had known. And it cannot show for Alistair’s subjects. They whispered about him enough as it was.</p><p>She is, and not for the first time, shamefully regretful of this position she has put him in.</p><p>With this feeling bubbling inside her, Surana raises her hands, the movements of her fingers seamless and familiar.</p><p>“Care to join us?” her fingertips ask in the silent language only they understand, and clenches her jaw against curious glances. “I won, so you’ll have to take me on.”</p><p>Something ignites in Alistair’s eyes as he processes the offer. Then, the kingly exterior melts as he beams. </p><p>“Would love to!”</p><p>And like this, smiling like a boy who has not a care in the world, he tosses his surcoat aside, hands his crown to someone. The people surrounding them look confused and flabbergasted as the King moves forward, picking up a shield on his way to the middle of the training yard.</p><p>To her side, Zevran taps her elbow slightly, and his other hand offers her a glass of twirling blue liquid. There is a wicked, meaningful smile dancing across his features as he bows theatrically once again, moving to stand with the crowd. </p><p>Surana downs the Lyrium potion, ignoring the hesitant looks the watchers give her. </p><p>Alistair approaches her, unsheathing his sword, smile never faltering as Surana yields her staff in response. </p><p>It is only them the guardsmen seem to realize what it is their King is about to do.</p><p>“Your Grace,” one of them asks, sounding slightly horrified. “Is this wise?”</p><p>Alistair shrugs, and the king in him thaws, and the brilliance of his eyes thaws the incoming winter, until all she sees is Warden Alistair again and it is summer in the courtyard.</p><p>“Eh, maybe not. Fun, though.” he responds, points his sword at her warningly. “Don’t take it easy on me. You know I hate that.”</p><p>She smiles, moves her fingers and magic brews in her palm. She waves her hand gracefully in what says, “I would never.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>And then he strikes—</p>
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